Shitty Poetry

I used to post my own poetry here, and I may still sometimes, but I'm now putting art here as well, mine and others

[badndngirl]

just write a shitty poem, what do you have to lose

[ky-ju-deactivated20231122]

I gasp with the air

As I raise the window up

Breeze hits my mind’s fog

[linkedsoul]

Keep reading

[gingerly-writing]

BRO I THOUGHT THIS WAS A PROFESSIONAL POET’S WRITING ND THEN I SAW YOUR URL. IM NOT OKAY

[randomramblesofaraven]

THIS IS BLISTERING, I AM SHOOKETH TO MY CORE

[linkedsoul]

AUDHAUA THANK YOU GUYS <3 <3

[butterflypeaflowertea]

every so often i remember this poem by langston hughes & am inconsolable

[sjowgren-deactivated20240728]

some of my favorite tiny love stories

[libbyframe]

Groovy baby!

[luthienne]

Mary Ruefle, from Trances of the Blast; “Abdication”

[insomniac-dot-ink]

A Witch at Midnight

I wish to depart from This sunlight where I burn To withers in the eyes of  The invisible world.

I wish to wrap myself in Shadows and scraped knees And raise my fists to blackened Skies and say that I will not be Safe and I will not be easy.

I wish to dance in the moonlight with The devil’s blessing, round and round In the crooked field of gnarled forests, Surrounded by wolves and feral hosts, I wish to break my teeth to points And make men weep at the sight of me.

I will not be safe and I will not be easy.

I will depart barefoot into my pleasures Of the great unknown and kiss Girls made of fury and feathers That you cannot caress, wings that Haven’t been eviscerated By the breakneck winds of existing In society’s snow globe.

I wish to take your fears: The witch in the meadow  Making church prayers into  Curses that come real, The witch in the meadow Chanting to gods that  Have no interest in good. The witch in the meadow  With the night on her back And flight made apparent.

I will not be safe and I will not be easy.

And in my meadow of night and as a Cackling woman of old I wish to Become your villains, And your heroes.

[thecaffeinebookwarrior-deactiva]

The New Decade

She’s born haloed with butter-gold light, like a ripe full moon.  Nestled like a promise in the mottled brown arms of the old one.

“Take care of her,” the old one advises.  “She’s a new beginning.  A new chance.”  

Soon, the new one will open her gilded eyes, and her reign will begin.  No one can predict how she’ll rule.

“Yes, you can.  As you rule her, she’ll rule you.”  The old one’s eyes are burnished like pennies, like setting suns.  “Nurture her, and she’ll rule you well.” 

[brennatwohy]

“Forgive Me My Salt,” Brenna Twohy.

[phosphorescent-naidheachd]

[Image description: A photo of an opened paperback book against a reddish wood background. The poem on the page facing the camera reads,

“When I Say I Forgive You, Know This I did not bury the hatchet. I have the hatchet in my hands. I am building myself a new house.”]

[death-witch-envy]

For your Persephone anon: I have been working with her for many many years. She is complex and deep. One side is almost child like, carefree and full of bright light. She whispers to the flowers to help them blossom. She is also familiar with her dark side, which can be even harsher than Hades'. She understand the cycles of life and birth and welcomes both into the world. Working with her can be easy and gentle, but remember her complexities

Thank you, this is beautiful.

[blogthebooklover]

Underworld

I

Hades, god of the Underworld

He sits on a throne of skulls

Judging the mortal souls

With a just, but cold hand

Hades, god of riches

Glittering gems in dirt

Make his cold eyes shine

With a warm, colorful light

II

Persephone, goddess of spring

She sits beside Hades

On a throne of gems and roses

She too judges the souls

Persephone, goddess of the underworld

She can be warm

But cross her, and she can be cold

Yet she cares still for life

In the cold Underworld

III

Thanatos, god of death

And the right hand of Hades

He knows to steal breath

And set the heart at ease

IV

Hecate, goddess of witchcraft

And the left hand of Hades

She knows not to be daft

And knows when to please

Hecate, goddess of ghosts

Moaning, weeping spirits

She knows to host

The mourning of most

Dries their tears does she

Smiling with sorrowful glee

V

Charon, carrier of souls

And he knows the roles

They all played in life

Until they were met with strife

Hero or villain, matters not

Victor or victim, matters not

He simply delivers the lot

VI

O, beautiful and violent

This Underworld seems to be

Yet, it only reflects

The world above, and we

Who seem so frightened

Of what death brings

And lo, we are enlightened

To be in the presence of immortal kings

[ritualcircle]

Federico Beltrán Masses - The Night of Eve (1929)

[2amjournalpoems]

I need the kind of music so sweet it'll rot my teeth. I need cheerful ukulele and syrupy lyrics, I need I love yous and cheesy poetry. I need light chords and soft strums, Need musicians with bows and buttons, faded tattoos and no shoes. I am literally going to drown in the sweeping sounds of unrealistic bliss, fill my lungs with this manufactured happiness, and just ignore the calories, pretend that breath is coming easily. Pretend that My Life is as pure as melody, as enticing as song. Pretend that my heart racing is reaction to rhapsody, and not another reason. Gonna plant seeds of sugar flowers in my heart and hope the sweetness compensates for that choking feeling. I'm going to treasure every calamity and cavity until I'm okay again.

[2amjournalpoems]

Hands

Hands Strong hands. Shake you back to reality. Squeeze someone else's. Historical evidence, Relentless companion There for all struggles and luxuries. Grueling hard work, Physical labor stain soot and slivers, sand callouses into palms. Heavenly recuperation, Fingers prune, nails clipped and painted, lotion massaging smoothness into lines and cracks. Hands, gripping a steering wheel. Capable, independent, The Driver. Hands, scrawling poems into a nondescript notebook, Shading the contours and curves of daydreamed figures, Pioneering art not yet in existence. Fingers, cuticles picked bit by bit, reduced to layers and layers of stress-induced texture. Handshakes, indicative of social outlook and participation, angry grip or loose and wobbly conviction? Either is fine. Hands, so telling, so dependable. Sometimes. Hands, sometimes rendered useless by circumstance, and that's fine too. Unfortunate and integral. We are not our disabilities, but they are part of us. I will never not have some of them. My hands probably show it. I fidget, touch and play and fuss with whatever has the misfortune to be in My Hands. Twist and squash and stretch in attempts to augment attention.

[2amjournalpoems]

Divinity in Your You-ness

Say God. In your head, out loud, it doesn't matter. God God God. God God God. God God God God God God God. Doesn't feel like a word anymore, does it? Vaguely meaningless, as significant as cod, or job. Rob. God lies in you as you. We've made God meaningless. A small piece of divinity in all of us. As us. Our spiritual paths, the wandering road of exploration and devotion, We cannot progress in the guise of others. God is not a person, God is divine. We are not pieces of God, fractions of another. We are divine in being ourselves, unflinching in our us-ness. Never hide, or lie, or fly in fright. God lies in you, as you. You are divinity, So be as you as you can be.

[2amjournalpoems]